


thoughts of you subside, then i get another letter

by cori_the_bloody, notbang



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: F/M, Letters, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2020-03-26 10:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19004173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cori_the_bloody/pseuds/cori_the_bloody, https://archiveofourown.org/users/notbang/pseuds/notbang
Summary: Rebecca and Nathaniel become pen pals. Set after 4x17.





	1. Nathaniel

**Author's Note:**

> For more works in this universe, look to [these headcanons](https://catty-words.tumblr.com/post/184021765750/this-was-supposed-to-be-for-the-308-timehop-but) and [this art](https://notbang.tumblr.com/post/184386867724/thoughts-of-you-subside-then-i-get-another-letter).

  
  
  
  


Rebecca,

I’m not really sure how to start this. Or how to continue it. Or why I’m doing this in the first place.

Alright, that’s not entirely true. Telling you why feels too much like I’m accusing you of something, though. On the other hand, not telling you why might be demanding too much without an explanation…

Maybe it would be better if I talk to myself? Then you can read this or throw it away and it won’t matter because it’s not really a letter for you. It’s a letter for me that I just happen to be sending to you. That’s worth a shot, at least. Right?

So, I’m writing to Rebecca Bunch even though she hurt my feelings and I’m still not over it. Maybe a bit because she hurt my feelings and I’m still not over it.

But, honestly, more because when I think about home, Rebecca is what comes to mind. Everything else—George coming into my office uninvited with something idiotic to say, weekend runs with White Josh, the long stretches of highway between West Covina and LA—comes in secondary waves. First and foremost, it’s Rebecca’s face.

If I keep up the honesty, which is part of my whole being a better person campaign—honesty with myself, that’s part of the reason I can’t let go of my hurt feelings even though I’m well over 2,000 miles away and doing something that’s challenging and fun in a way work never has been before. Because I’ve never been attached to an idea of home before but, lately, when I think about how far away I am, I get this embarrassing pang. Rebecca specifically didn’t choose me, but I can’t help feeling like I betrayed and abandoned home by moving so far away from her.

I guess that was a lot of words to say I’m homesick, but that’s the whole pathetic truth.

Anyway, I’m not so pathetic that I hope things are going poorly for Rebecca. If she decides to respond to this, I hope she has some good news about how her life is going.

…I’m not really sure how to end this. So.

\- N


	2. Rebecca

  
  
  


Dear Nathaniel,

Rebecca would be lying if she said she didn’t feel a little awkward right now. As in, she just spent twenty minutes on that embarrassing doodle at the top of the page to procrastinate writing this kind of awkward. She doesn't want things to be awkward, but she totally understands why they might be. But I guess what she’s getting at is: what a roundabout explanation for wanting to reach out to a friend!

And, while she’s at it, Rebecca Bunch is sorry that she hurt your feelings. In that new age, therapy-condoned, sorry-that-you-were-collateral-not-because-I-did-it kind of way. Truly. But she’s not sure she wants to keep talking to herself, or about herself in the third person, certain mental health-related connotations considered. Not when she’d really rather just talk to a friend.

So if I’m being honest—and I guess that’s a common theme for us, now—I’ve been avoiding you. Or avoiding the idea of you, at least in a communicative, mostly-social media sense, which felt very modern and mature of me, and because I thought that’s what you wanted—space. Because as much as I’m trying to learn that not every thing is about me, one of your exes moving 2000 miles away after you let them down as gently as you possibly could can’t help but feel a little personal, and liking a photo of you wearing a shade of khaki I never thought you’d be caught dead in and talking to literal monkeys felt too much like saying I was glad you were gone. Which, for the record, I AM, but only in the sense that you’re doing something for you, and you kind of look like you’re happy doing it. So, say the word, and I’ll unleash a social media storm. Likes, comments, emojis. Statuses heralding your humanitarian efforts. The whole shebang. 

As for what’s going on in my life: my new roommate hasn’t tried to murder me with his bare hands yet, though I do occasionally fear for the safety of my keyboard. My singing lessons are either finally paying off or my vocal coach is just becoming immune to my opposite-of-a-siren’s-song (just as likely) and oh boy, they really aren’t lying when they say writing is HARD! But ditto on it being fun to feel challenged again in a way I haven’t in so long, and if getting something down on paper gives me even a sliver of the fulfilment I felt when you sang my words up on that stage, Nathaniel… Now that I stop to think about it, it makes it strangely appropriate, us communicating this way now, don’t you think?

Anyway, tell me everything! What are you actually doing out there in the jungle? Are there other cool animals besides monkeys? Do the monkeys live with you? Is there an alligator in your bathtub? Do you even have a bathtub? And do the monkeys have names? If not, can you call one of them Tim? I think it might help with the homesickness, personally.

For what it’s worth, and coming from someone else who was surprised to find out at some point West Covina had taken up root as that confusing, intangible concept of home—it misses you, too. But don’t feel guilty. It’ll still be here when you’re ready to come back. I can say that from experience.

Hope you’re well, and not dying from dysentery, or malaria, or whatever disease one can contract from monkeys,

Your humble and obedient servant,

R. Bunch

PS. You have NO idea how much I have always wanted a pen pal!! To be fair, I always imagined something slightly more exotic than a white overprivileged lawyer on sabbatical in Guatemala, but I guess in a pinch, you’ll do.

PPS. In the interest of expectation management, I should probably disclose that there’s a good chance I will be a terrible pen pal, and the abysmal timing of this response is only case in point. There may or may not have been an incident where your letter got used in the place of paper towel, and then rescued only to be buried under scraps of lyrics scribbled on grocery lists and unpaid bills for the better part of a month. I aim to treat all future correspondence with slightly better care, but make no promises.

PPPS. It was _really_ nice to hear from you, Nathaniel. In case that part wasn’t clear.


	3. Nathaniel

  
  
  
  
  


Rebecca,

 

This may come as a shock to you but, throughout my childhood, it was impressed upon me that honesty is a sucker’s game. You expose your hand too completely, and you’ll be made a fool. Because what is honesty, really, but vulnerability? And Plimptons are never vulnerable.

While I don’t see much merit to living life like it’s one big poker game you’re trying to win anymore, I still get this knee-jerk urge to clam up against the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Which is that leaving West Covina right after you let me down, indeed very gently, was personal. But it also wasn’t.

I don’t know if I should feel guilty that it’s easier to tell you this with the entirety of Mexico spread out between us but, Rebecca, you changed my entire life.

I’ll admit, watching you run around boldly proclaiming your feelings to anyone who’d listen had, at first, convinced me that you were a moron. But it wasn’t long before it was the thing I admired most about you. There’s always been a—I don’t know—freedom about you, and I envied it. Envied the way you could stomp into someone’s life and make them feel less alone with one smile. I hadn’t realized I’d been craving that, either, that sense of connection. And I continued to not realize it even as I tried to keep you as close to me as possible, by any means necessary.

So yes, taking a sabbatical in Guatemala was a direct result of you gently, but very purposefully, pushing me away. But it’s important to me that you know that it’s not because I needed to escape or lash out. It’s because you inspired me to want the personal gratification that comes from building something—be it a lasting friendship or a community at large or, as it were, an animal sanctuary.

Which, to answer one of your questions, is what I’m doing out here: helping the sanctuary secure funding, setting a couple expansion projects in motion, protecting them from bureaucratic red tape. So not too different from a standard day in the—pause for sigh—Mountaintop offices. Except now I get to break up the legalese with animal feedings and regularly scheduled playtimes. There are a lot of large cats here, to answer another question, and you have not lived until you’ve seen a tiger go nuts over a feathered toy like it’s some kind of housecat. I’ll try to capture a video—keep an eye on social media.

Speaking of, you may like or comment all you want, but if I see one string of emojis I’m blocking you. And then you’ll never get to see the alligator I named after you or whether or not it lives in my bathtub. Which I do have, even if filling it would be considered wasteful.

Now it’s your turn to tell me everything: How many songs have you written? Or does it not work like that, a complete one and move on kind of deal? What are they about? Can I hear them? I’ll happily give my honest opinion on how your vocal exercises are coming along.

Yours Truly,

\- N

 

P.S. Who thought honesty would ever be the major theme in our relationship? I like it. Though I do think it’s a bit disingenuous to be implying that I’m not exotic. Have you seen my new beard? I’m practically Bigfoot.

  
  


Meet the monkeys:

Jim & Tim (note Tim's vacant eyes)

Chimpanzee Darryl: always smiling, eyebrows

I call this one Heather because of its thoughtful frown and judgmental eyes


	4. Rebecca

Dear Nathaniel (aka Bigfoot),

I am, as you predicted, both shocked and appalled to learn that honesty and vulnerability were not forefront in your upbringing—you hide the repercussions of this, like, so well! Anyway, you might be similarly taken aback to learn that as the child of an overbearing Jewish mother, my relationship with the truth has also never been easy — I too present as so well-adjusted, I know! — and that I learned at a very young age how much the truth can hurt, and that sometimes a truth that’s a little less true can be kinder than the truest truths, which often were synonymous with pain. I know I’m not exactly making sense, so I’ll provide an example: false truths are for when your mother asks how she looks in the dress she bought especially for parent-teacher night because the vice-principle is newly divorced, and true truths are for when your father walks out of your twelfth birthday party and your life with barely a backwards glance. I became alarmingly adept at dealing with the first kind. It’s taken me more than half my life to even start to address the second.

While we’re being honest about the impact we’ve had on each other’s lives — and damn, I guess we’re stuck committing to that bit, now — it’d be remiss of me not to thank you for the mark you left on mine. For all our relationship’s faults — and don’t get me wrong, of which there were _many_ — you never once made me feel like I had to jump through hoops for your attention. I have some experience with the desperation to keep someone close, and there was something secretly reaffirming in having someone feel that way for _me_ for once. And that’s another confession I suppose we can attribute to the great divide of the land mass that is Mexico, because here’s the thing: turns out in my life I’ve done a lot of chasing. And then, ironically, Mr It’s-All-About-The-Pursuit — I met you.

And because I never had to chase you, or trap you, or wonder if you liked me or wanted me back, for the first time in forever I guess I finally had the chance to stand still and start to examine what _I_ felt, and the way I was feeling it, and the things those feelings made me do. Which, as we both know, has been a rocky and complicated process, so please don’t take it the wrong way when I say that breaking it off with you — the instances of which there are regrettably several — is one of the most important things I’ve ever done. Because all of that was essential prologue to me ending up on the journey I’m on now.

Songwriting, or at least my experience with it, is a lot of fits and starts. For example, I’m supposed to be doing it right now, but I’m writing this instead to procrastinate. Which is the neat flipside to me first sitting down to answer your letter over a week ago only to wind up writing a ditty from the point of view of the ball of lint in the back corner of my sock drawer. So weird, right? It also involves a lot of snacks, and Buzzfeed breaks, and complaints from your roommate that keyboard curfew was put in place for a reason. As for how many I’ve written — in my head? About a thousand. But getting them down on paper is another thing, and then there’s the melody to wrestle with, too. So officially? Only really one? At a stretch, maybe five, if we’re being generous. And I would love for you to hear them, just as soon as there’s more of them, and I’m ready for them to leave the safe space of my living room.

As for your unbiased assessment of my ever-evolving singing voice — I’m not sure our friendship is ready for _that_ kind of honesty just yet. False truths still have their merit.

Delighted to report back that Heather is _very_ unimpressed that you’ve named a monkey after her, and even more so to find out that I got an alligator by comparison (hope you made sure to choose the one with the nicest smile!). She wanted to request you reassign her to something slightly more badass, but don’t worry — I already told her that would be way too confusing for the monkey.

From one bathtub alligator to another (see attached picture for reference),

Metaphorically yours,

Rebecca Nora Bunch & R.G.G.


	5. Rebecca

  


[Dear Nathaniel,

My reasons for writing are twofold; for one, I saw this awful postcard in a gas station off East Cameron and thought that being the soft, sentimental person that you are you might enjoy the reminder of home. Secondly, it’s been awhile, and I just wanted to check you haven’t, like, died.

I may or may not have spent half an hour doing some creative Googling/Facebook stalking to cover my bases in that regard, because I can’t imagine the emotional toll of writing someone to jokingly check they’re still alive only to find they’re not! For the record, in the slim chance that you have, in fact, been eaten by an alligator without the internet’s knowledge: may you rest in peace, and spare a thought for the toll your inconvenient passing will have taken on me, the concerned author of this postcard.

I’m sure you’re just busy though, and honestly, I can relate. The pretzel business is booming (as much as one’s pretzel business can in the lobby of a law firm, anyway) and therapy and music lessons are commanding a lot of my spare time. I can see how all those monkeys would be a similar handful.

Hope to hear from you soon,  
x Rebecca

PS. Please don’t get eaten by alligators. Some people might miss you. Not me. But maybe, like, your mom, or someone.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Postcard from here ([x](https://www.livablewestcovina.org/))


	6. Nathaniel

  


  
  


Rebecca,

It was nice knowing you! You can have my bath towels. If I recall correctly, they were your favorite part of spending the night at my place.

\- N


	7. Nathaniel

  
  
  
  
  


Rebecca,

 

Perhaps the postcard was a bit mean-spirited, but that’s what you get for calling me a soft, sentimental person. I had to get back at you.

Okay, that’s a false truth. The unvarnished truth would look a little something more like I enjoyed hearing that you were worried about me—perhaps a bit too much—and I needed to shock us both out of that. Or something.

Because before you sent your very thoughtful postcard, I’d also been thinking about what you said in your last letter. About never needing to chase me and how that was affirming for you. The idea that something so positive could come from my greatest source of embarrassment has had me reconsidering a lot—stuff I was already in the process of reconsidering, but this certainly brought everything into sharp relief.

And when I say my greatest source of embarrassment, I want to be sure you know I don’t mean my feelings for you. I could never regret those in any shape or form. More, my inability to control them always frustrated—even unnerved—me.

Now, thinking about my approach to our relationship in those terms, it seems so obvious to me that we couldn’t make it work any of the hundred times we tried. And I wish I could take this perspective back with me in time, to when you dumped me and I didn’t get it, because I think I do now. Or I’m starting to.

Funny how my own journey has moved from believing happiness isn’t important at all, to wanting happiness with you no matter the cost, to understanding now that some things are in fact more important if you ever want the chance of finding lasting happiness, huh?

Anyway, enough of the heavy stuff.

My reasons for taking so long to write back are numerous and boring. A lot of them involve the work I’m doing for the Sanctuary, but since you so adeptly escaped the world of bureaucracy and legalese, I’ll spare you most of the details. Just know I am kicking ass. I’m like the Sanctuary’s own personal Daddy Warbucks, except instead of depressing orphans, I get to hang out with wildlife.

Though that does occasionally come with its perils. Last month, monkey Heather got impatient during a feeding and scratched me up pretty good. One of the gashes got infected, so I had to be hospitalized for a bit. Everything’s fine now, but I hope this helps person Heather feel more at peace with the badassery of her Guatemalan counterpart.

Truthfully Yours,

\- N (a.k.a BF)

…Bigfoot. Not boyfriend.

 

P.S. I’m still not sentimental, but your postcard did get me thinking about home. Any news from the wackiest Los Angeles suburb?


	8. Rebecca

  
  
  
  
  


Dear BFNBF,

I don’t even know where to begin. That postcard (you’re funny! I always forget somehow that you’re funny!), Annie references?! (we’re definitely going to have to circle back to _that_ the next time I see you) or the upsetting news of your recent hospitalisation? I guess I’ll start there: now you’ve made me feel bad, both for my postcard and my ongoing jokes about contracting weird animal diseases, but also I wish I’d known, so I could have sent you flowers or some kind of fancy chocolates you wouldn’t eat. Heather did, just as you predicted, warm to the idea of being the namesake to the monkey that drew precious Plimpton blood, but she also kind of grimaced in a way that said you should look after yourself. Like, the level of concern was kind of embarrassing, if you ask me.

(I do have to make one very important correction—the bath towels were only my second favourite part of sleepovers at your place. The best part was actually the Thai restaurant around the corner—you know, the one that does those sticky satay skewers—and the way you’d always get so pouty when I ate them without a plate. They usually went hand in hand with the showers though, so it makes sense you’d get them confused.)

Anyway, you’ll find no critique of your journey towards happiness from the girl who once took advice from a butter commercial, believe me. Just know that I think what you’re doing is cool as shit, and that it low-key blows my freaking mind if I start to think about it for too long. Because I can still remember that prickly, uptight dude that tried to fire half the office to impress his overbearing dad, and while I’ll always have a soft spot for that version of Nathaniel—he had his moments, after all—I think this new and improved, Nathaniel 2.0 is doing pretty well for himself, all recent monkey maulings notwithstanding. As for the embarrassment at your inability to regulate your feelings—well, I could probably lend you a workbook or two, if you’d like. The truth is, I’ve floundered at both ends of the spectrum—from uncomfortably numb to the F6 inconceivable tornado of emotion—and I’m still stumbling through navigating that rocky middle ground. I guess at the end of the day, it’s all part of the mess that comes with being human.

West Covina isn’t all that different to how you left it. Or, at least, I don’t have anything of much interest to report. Darryl and April have packed all the kids up for some kind of Great American family road trip, and I had to convince Madison my blossoming babysitting services, admirable though they are, do not extend to snails. I’m not sure if you’ve ever been introduced to Heather’s starfish, but let’s just say it’s probably for the best that who I am as a person isn’t up for review on Yelp. I don’t think my ability to take care of other people’s animals would be pulling in any glowing reviews. (Rebetzel’s, for the record, is still sitting pretty on five stars. Who needs the Michelin system when your sole reviewer is Valencia?)

Speaking of Valencia, I’m happy to report I’ve finally worked out how to use the Polaroid camera she got me for my birthday—physical evidence enclosed.

See you in hell—hope the weather’s still warm when I get there.

Nefariously yours,  
Rebecca Bunch

PS. Don’t believe a word George tells you. He was a willing participant in the retrieval of those towels, no matter what he says.

PPS. What kind of super powers does one develop from a monkey infection? You were already long-limbed and purportedly hairy—how long now until the true transformation into Bigfoot is complete?

[Ruth Gator Ginsburg says hi!]

[Meet Estrella!! This was going to be an ongoing series, but turns out that frame is NOT waterproof - who knew???]


	9. Nathaniel

  
  
  
  
  
  


Rebecca,

 

The reason I didn’t tell you about being hospitalized is very similar to the reason I sent the (funny? Really? Me?) postcard. Basically, I thought it’d be selfish. The only reason I’d have told you would to be to feel the rush that comes with knowing you care enough about me to be concerned. It wasn’t like there’d be anything you could do to help me, after all.

And realizing that got me to thinking about all the panic attacks I had when you were hospitalized. That powerlessness, it’s not something I’d wish on anyone.

Anyway, I made the decision to save the news until after everything was said and done. It’s just a footnote now, instead of something that’s scary and immediate.

Speaking of news, I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t mention how Josh or Greg is doing in your recap of West Covina exploits? Are you still in contact with them?

…Perhaps it’s out of line for me to be asking. I just don’t want you to feel like you can’t tell me if you are. Still in contact with them, that is.

The three of us really put you on the spot, but I know I, at least, feel like that chapter in my life has concluded. And maybe the messiness is best dealt with when there’s some distance—both literal and metaphorical—between us.

Whatever you choose, though. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. We could pretend the whole thing never happened, if that suits you.

Starting…now.

I hope George is prepared to die the minute I get back to town. Or, at the very least, to buy me a new set of towels.

(While we’re on the topic of your little adventure, I wonder: where does sleeping with me fall on your list of favorite things about staying over at my apartment? Be warned that my ego is still fairly fragile. So, on second thought, maybe don’t answer this question.)

Since I’m already blurring lines—or perhaps crossing them altogether—and since you ruined my team photo and owe me, I’d like to request a picture of you to hang up by my desk. A memento of home to pair with your postcard. But, again, don’t feel like you have to.

Truthfully Yours,

\- Someone who didn’t need to be scratched up by a monkey to become Bigfoot because he already was Bigfoot

 

P.S. I’m including a picture of Heather for Heather.

 

[Don’t be fooled by my pretty eyes and innocent face – I aim to kill!]


	10. Rebecca

  
  
  


Dear Nathaniel,

Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. I’d like to say it’s because I’ve been busy, and that my life has been exciting and action-packed, but the truth is, life has really just been… well, life. And I, as we both know, am occasionally susceptible to the odd distraction, as well as somewhat prone to a healthy dose of avoidance every now and again. Which isn’t to say that I’ve been avoiding _you_ so much as avoiding this letter, because if we’re still being honest (and I suppose we’re committed to the bit, now) I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond?

So I’ll start with this: I’m making it a caveat of our friendship, going forward, that I’d like to know about things when they’re scary and immediate. Because that rush of knowing someone cares about you?? I can’t believe this is a newsflash, but I also suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—you’re entitled to it, dumbass! That’s, like, ninety percent of what friendships are for. The other ten percent is having someone obligated to tell you when you’re being stupid, so. You’re stupid. And I’d like to do all consequent reflection on your stupidity in real time, okay?

Okay.

As far as I know, Josh is doing well for himself. He’s got his own apartment now, and a new job that I’m pretty sure involves working with kids, which sounds perfect for him, honestly? According to Facebook he has a new girlfriend, whose name I don’t recall and whose profile I haven’t looked at once. Which sounds kind of rude to say, now that I’m reading it back to myself on paper, but for me that’s, like, a weird measure of progress that maybe you can appreciate. He seems happy, and that makes me happy, but we’re not exactly at the exchanging-letters stage of estrangement. Although, in a way that’s kind of where he and I started, so maybe it would be a nice form to revisit for the sake of closure. 

…that is, as long as it wouldn’t make you too jealous. Rest assured you’d remain my OTP (one true penpal).

Greg’s restaurant is doing well, and the pasta and the in-house piano makes it somewhat pertinent to my interests. He mentioned that you helped him out a little with his zoning, which is big of you, even if you were comically oblivious to your mere degree of separation when you originally offered. I’m sure there’s a plate waiting for you on the house when you get back, even if you’d be hard pressed to find an item on the menu that isn’t composed predominantly of carbs.

The truth is, as probably ill-advised as our whole wannabe-Bachelorette scenario was, I don’t want to forget it ever happened. Because all that horrible, conflicting indecisiveness led to a moment of absolute clarity that I have been looking for my entire life. But that just brings us back to rehashing all our truest truths, and the apologies that go hand in hand with them, and I think we’re good on those, for now, don’t you? So maybe it’s something we’ll just sort of… relegate to the background.

As for your inquiry into where your sexual prowess falls in the list of benefits of your apartment… you’re fishing, and a lady never tells! Since I’m just barely one of those, though, I will concede that it falls closer to the Thai takeout and towels end of the spectrum than it does the noise pollution from your neighbour’s Pekingese coupled with your 5am alarm. Your fragile masculine ego definitely doesn’t need any stroking, but hopefully it’ll settle for a light pat and the emphatic reassurance that I never had any complaints. 

The question I suppose I’ll posit in return is: who was the better cuddler? Me or RGG? And is the alligator in your bathtub a suitable stand-in, in a pinch?

Belatedly but caringly yours,

Rebecca Bunch

PS. Hope this glamour shot I made Heather take of me getting ready for Valencia’s engagement party is a suitable candidate for your desk. I feel like it really captures my essence. I took some of my hair inspiration from you.


	11. Nathaniel

  
  
  
  
  


Rebecca,

 

This is probably unfair of me to say because you’re welcome to chase whatever distractions you want, but it was a relief to hear back from you. And I’m not talking mundane, everyday relief. This was no “thank god I finally found the tax code loophole that’s going to tie my whole argument together” kind of feeling. Oh no, my friend. It was a pitiful, reduced-to-a-bumbling-idiot-for-the-day relief.

~~I had to wrestle~~ ~~I’m dumb and~~ ~~the monkey~~

An “ended up wrestling with a monkey because they grabbed the letter out of my hand while I was showing off how not mad at me you were” sort of event.

(You may have noticed how embarrassing it was for me to write that out, but it’s all about the unvarnished truth, right?)

Anyway, I did get the letter back from Jim’s dastardly clutches, and all it needed was a little bit of tape. So only mildly injured, much like my—what did you call it?—fragile masculine ego when you refused to answer my question outright.

As for your inquiry, let’s review your history, shall we?

First, there was that one Saturday afternoon you begged me for hours to take a nap, and when I finally caved, we were promptly interrupted by a series of peanut sauce stains of your creation.

There was that time you busted open my lip with your head trying to use me as a human blanket.

Need I even mention the New Year’s Eve incident?

And, of course, let’s not forget the time you tried to climb over the back of a chair onto my lap and cracked my laptop screen and broke a spring in the seat, leaving me with a hefty Apple Store bill and a permanently lopsided piece of furniture.

Obviously, there’s no contest.

  
  


I’d take a cuddle from you over RGG any day of the week. And there are no suitable substitutes.

Truthfully Yours,

\- N

 

P.S. Very impressed by your first display of Facebook restraint. Seeing as you left no less than thirty emojis on my profile this past week, I would not have thought it possible.

(Yes, I counted them. Shipping yourself off to a foreign country to do work you’ve always wanted to sounds neat in theory until you spend weekend after weekend alone and need to resort to things like traveling back home for a hot-tub themed condo warming party or counting emojis to remind yourself you had a social life, once.)

 

P.S. II I’d never tell you not to write Josh a letter, but if you’re looking for the truest truth? Yeah, I don’t like it.

 

P.S. III It’s amazing how much more dignified your hair looks like that. Even given the wildly inappropriate but very you setting of the photo.


End file.
